


Early Days

by carry_on_my_wayward_wesley



Series: Full Circle [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carry_on_my_wayward_wesley/pseuds/carry_on_my_wayward_wesley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of loosely connected one-shots about Wesley during his time in Sunnydale. First in a four-part, Wesley-centric series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Donuts and Dog Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of a four fanfic series about Wesley. I'm starting with his Sunnydale days because I have a soft spot for young, naïve Wesley, and I have a vested interest in proving that he wasn't really all that bad. There were plenty of scenes that showed him being fairly cooperative and agreeable, and I think there were a lot more moments like that which we never got to see. The main purpose of this story is to explore some of those moments.
> 
> The other purpose of this story is to focus on the best aspects of his personality, the positive traits that were present even from the beginning. Because for all of the changes Wesley went through over the course of both shows, he was always the same man at his core.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wesley pulls a few all-nighters, Buffy respects the classics, Xander's jokes fall flat, and everyone likes donuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive Traits – Dedication; Curiosity

"Morning, Giles," Buffy walked into the library and set the bright pink box she was carrying on the table. She pulled her book bag over her shoulder and dropped it into the nearest chair, then came around the other side of the table and peered over Giles' shoulder to get a look at the demon he was researching.

"Hello, Buffy," he glanced up at her. "Did you bring the donuts?"

"Got 'em right here," Buffy indicated the box. "Nobody else is here yet?"

"Xander's in the back looking for another reference book. Willow phoned a few moments ago and said she and Oz are on their way. Wesley's in there," Giles jerked his head toward the office. "I don't think he left last night."

Buffy looked over her shoulder and saw Wesley sprawled out on the couch in Giles' office. The young Watcher was sound asleep, one hand clutching a large open book on his chest, the other dangling limply by his side, fingers brushing against the tiled floor.

"You guys were here late researching this demon?" Buffy gestured to the illustration in one of the books.

Giles nodded. "I left around eleven. Wesley said he wanted to stay and cross-reference a few more sources."

"Guess he lost track of time," Buffy remarked.

"He was like that when I came in an hour ago," Giles said. "I thought it best to let him sleep. Although I've just come across a passage I'm having a little trouble with. I could use his help translating it. Would you mind waking him for me?"

"Sure," Buffy went into the small room and leaned over the sleeping Watcher. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she shook him gently. "Hey Wes, wake up."

He mumbled something incoherent and his eyelids fluttered, but didn't open.

"C'mon," Buffy nudged him a little harder. "Giles needs your help translating something."

"Mmph, I'm awake," Wesley jerked suddenly and looked up at her in bleary-eyed confusion. "Buffy. I...uh, I must have dozed off. What are you doing here so late?"

"You did more than doze," Buffy said. "It's nine-thirty in the morning."

Wesley blinked. "Oh...it was midnight a moment ago." He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then straightened his glasses. "Well...ah...I assure you I'm not in the habit of falling asleep on the job—"

"Relax, Wes," Buffy said. "You've been putting in the long hours. You probably needed a good night's sleep."

Wesley stood and stretched, yawning as he straightened his vest and tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his sleeves. He glanced around for his shoes and found them near the front leg of the couch.

"I do feel remarkably well-rested," He admitted, slipping his shoes on. His stomach growled. "And hungry."

"There's donuts on the table," Buffy said, and Wesley made a beeline for the box of pastries. "Touch the jelly ones and Giles will banish you to another dimension."

"Gleefully," Giles said.

"Quite all right," Wesley opened the box and removed a donut with chocolate icing. "I prefer the cream-filled kind, myself."

"Hey, not cool," Xander appeared from behind one of the bookshelves. "I called dibs on the cream-filled one."

"Too late," Wesley said, taking a bite of the pastry. A sly grin spread across his face, and he pushed the box forward. "Why don't you have a jelly?"

"Uh-uh," Xander shook his head. "I'm smarter than that." He sighed dramatically and came down the stairs. "I guess I'll have to stick to the regular old glazed ones."

"Nothin' beats the classics," Buffy said with a shrug.

Giles looked up. "Now why couldn't you have that attitude about literature?"

"Books aren't tasty," Buffy teased him.

"They are if you're a dog!" Xander grinned. The other three regarded him with blank stares. "Y'know, cuz...dogs...eating...homework—I guess that joke kinda fell a little flat."

"Like a pancake," Buffy said.

"What's that about pancakes?" Willow asked brightly as she and Oz came in.

"One of Xander's jokes fell flat," Buffy explained.

"Oh," Willow looked disappointed. "So there's no actual pancakes, then."

"We've got donuts," Wesley said. "An acceptable substitute?"

"Works for me!" Willow reached into the box and pulled out a chocolate one with sprinkles.

"Me too," Oz grabbed a glazed one and devoured it in two bites. "I'm always hungry on full-moon days."

"Oh, that's right!" Willow said. "I almost forgot. Who's on Oz-watch tonight?"

Buffy turned to Wesley and grinned. "Wes, you feel like pulling another all-nighter?"

"Me?" Wesley looked surprised.

"Everyone has to take a turn on Oz-watch at some point," Buffy said. "And you've never done it before."

"Well, I..." Wesley faltered. "I suppose it would be fascinating to see a werewolf up close. You're certain that cage is secure?"

"Oh, yeah, totally," Willow nodded emphatically. "He's only gotten out once...maybe twice."

Wesley looked a little freaked out. "Ahm..."

"You'll be fine," Willow assured him. "Just stay a safe distance away from the cage, and, y'know, maybe talk to him a little bit. He likes that."

"If you're not up for it..." Giles began.

"No, no, I can do it," Wesley said. He glanced down at his wrinkled clothes and added, "Although I'd like to go home for a little while this afternoon and get cleaned up, if I'm going to be staying here overnight again."

"Of course," Giles said. "Just be back before moonrise. Now, back to our demon problem—"

"Ah yes, Buffy said you needed help with a translation?" Wesley came around to stand behind Giles and looked down at the page.

"Yes, I can't quite decipher this passage," Giles tapped the paragraph with his magnifying glass. "At first I thought it might be Sanskrit, but most of it would be complete gibberish were that the case."

Wesley peered over the rim of his glasses and studied the writing intently for a moment, before he let out an excited exclamation. "Ah! This is Molderev, a demonic language derived from Sanskrit. How fascinating! I haven't seen Molderev since I was a boy! It's quite rare. In written form, the language appears almost identical to Sanskrit. The differences are hard to spot, but there's a slight inversion of the..."

 

* * *

 

Wesley returned to the library half an hour before sunset. He had traded his suit and tie for a pair of blue jeans, white sneakers, and a dark green t-shirt. His hair, which normally appeared jet black, looked a few shades lighter and a little longer without the usual amount of product keeping it slicked down.

"Hello Buffy, Willow," Wesley said amiably to the two girls.

"Hey Wes." Buffy said absently. She glanced up from her history homework and did a double-take when she saw him. "Wow. You look...normal."

"You look surprised," he said flatly.

"I think we just associate Watchers with suits and tea and British stuff like that," Willow said. "I still haven't gotten used to seeing Giles in anything besides tweed."

" _Nobody's_ used to that," Buffy said.

"Heh," Willow grinned. " _Tweed_. Out-of-place on the streets of Southern California, but strangely fitting in here among all these old books."

The doors swished open and Oz walked in. He nodded a silent greeting to the group and headed straight for the cage. The girls stuck around for a few more minutes, as Willow finished quizzing Buffy on facts about World War I. Finally Buffy flipped her textbook shut and slid it into her bag.

"I'm done for the night," she said. "My brain is fried. You up for the Bronze tonight, Will?"

"Sure," Willow stood up and headed over to the cage. "Night, Oz. See you tomorrow."

"Night," Oz said.

Willow turned to Wesley. "If he starts to get restless when he goes all wolfy, try reading to him. It usually helps."

"Do you have a preference, Oz?" Wesley asked.

The blond boy shrugged. "I never remember any of it. But Willow says I like stories about dogs, which I guess makes sense."

"Yeah," Willow nodded. "But...I'd stay away from Old Yeller. Or that one about the red fern."

"Right," Wesley said. "I'll keep that in mind."

Willow double-checked the lock and gave Oz a little smile and wave before following Buffy out of the library, leaving Watcher and werewolf alone together. Wesley pulled out a chair and faced it toward the cage. Sitting down, he regarded the boy with interest.

"Do you mind...would it bother you if I watched the transformation?" Wesley asked. "I've never seen one before, and I admit I'm rather curious. But if you feel it would be an invasion of privacy..."

Oz shrugged again. "Nah, it's cool."

The last rays of light coming in through the window began to fade as the sun slipped below the horizon, and Wesley watched with fascination as the teenager in front of him transformed into a snarling supernatural beast.

"Extraordinary!" The Watcher whispered.

Inside the cage, the werewolf growled and whined and began pacing restlessly. Without warning he threw himself against the reinforced metal, rattling the door and startling his guard.

Wesley remembered Willow's advice about reading, and he stood up to go search for a suitable book. Willow had recommended dog stories, but Wesley was in the mood to read something a little more philosophic, and he figured it probably didn't make any difference to Oz. In his primal state, the werewolf was likely more soothed by the rhythmic sound of a person's voice rather than the actual _words_.

"We're going to be here a while," Wesley muttered as he made his way through the stacks to the fiction section. "Might as well pick a good _long_ book."

He searched through the R's, running his fingers along the authors' names until he landed on the large volume he was looking for.

"Here we are," he said cheerfully as he walked down the steps. "If we're lucky, perhaps you'll remember a bit of this in the morning."

Wesley came to a stop a safe distance from the cage and opened to the first chapter. Clearing his throat, he began reading aloud.

" _Howard Roark laughed._ "


	2. I Like You, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At home sick with the flu, Wesley gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive Traits – This is mostly just a fluff chapter, but I guess it's about showing Wesley's more vulnerable, human side and Cordelia's compassion and thoughtfulness

The doorbell rang, and Wesley groaned.

He lay naked, sprawled out on his bed with the covers kicked off and the ceiling fan turned up to its highest setting, all in the hopes of _not_ feeling the heat of the fever he’d been running since last night.

The fever was winning.

The doorbell sounded again, and Wesley heaved a sigh that turned into a painful coughing fit as he pushed himself upright. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and rubbed his temples tiredly. On the doorbell’s third chime, he stood and retrieved the pajama pants he had discarded during the night from off the floor. Pulling them on, he tightened the drawstring around his waist and shuffled into the living room to answer the door.

He was met by the sight of Cordelia Chase holding two large brown grocery bags and looking simultaneously concerned and impatient.

“Cordelia,” he said blankly, his voice hoarse. She evidently took that as an invitation to come inside.

“Wow, you look like crap,” she said, stepping past him and heading for the kitchen.

“I’m sick,” he said, still a bit unsure what she was doing, and feeling more than a little self-conscious about being seen by Cordelia, of all people, in his near-complete state of undress.

“I know,” she said as she set the bags on the counter. “I showed up at school today, only to find out classes had been cancelled for some last-minute teachers’ conference thing. Before I left I went by the library to see if you were around, and Giles told me you called in sick this morning. He said you have the flu.”

“Mhmm,” Wesley nodded. “So...it might not be the best idea for you to be here.”

“That’s _why_ I’m here,” Cordy reached into one of the bags and produced a can of chicken noodle soup, smiling as she held it up for him to see. She set it on the counter and began unloading more things, including orange juice, 7-Up, crackers, a carton of ice cream, a bottle of cold and flu medicine, and several more cans of soup. “I figured you probably wouldn’t feel up to going out and getting this stuff yourself, so...”

“Wow,” Wesley looked from Cordelia to the items on the counter, genuinely moved by her consideration. When was the last time someone had done something nice for him for no reason? He searched his memory, and was alarmed to find himself drawing a blank. “That was...very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Cordelia favored him with an easy smile, and he felt himself relaxing.

“I didn’t get you any tea because I don’t know what kind you like,” Cordelia went on. “ _And_ , I figured...you being British and all, you probably have plenty of the stuff lying around already.”

Wesley smiled a little. “Well...yes.”

Cordelia grinned and picked up the medicine bottle. “Now, this stuff? Works miracles. It’s pretty much the best thing you can take when you’re sick.”

“Does it alleviate the symptoms?” Wesley asked.

“A little bit,” Cordy said. “Mostly it just knocks you out so you can sleep through the worst of it.”

“Even better,” Wesley reached for it, and Cordelia started to hand him the bottle, then drew back.

Wesley looked puzzled. “Is there a problem?”

Cordelia turned the bottle on its side and read the instructions. “Says here you shouldn’t take it within an hour after eating,” she looked up. “Have you eaten recently?”

Wesley shook his head. “I’ve been sleeping all morning.”

“Have you eaten at all today?”

“No.”

“We should do something about that,” Cordy set the bottle back on the counter and handed him a can of soup instead. “Eat something. Wait a while. _Then_ take the medicine.”

Wesley looked longingly at the dark green liquid in the bottle. As much as he wanted to just down a few teaspoons of the stuff and go back to sleep, his growling stomach and a vague feeling of lightheadedness told him it would probably be better to heed Cordelia’s advice. He took the offered can and walked past her, giving the high-schooler a wide berth as he made his way toward the microwave.

She eyed him with an odd look on her face. “What?”

“Just...don’t want to get too close,” Wesley said. He opened the pop-top lid and poured the contents of the can into a bowl.

“Why, because you’re sick?” Cordy asked. “Afraid I’ll catch it from you?”

Wesley placed the bowl in the microwave and pushed the start button. “Well there’s that—” he began.

Cordelia shrugged. “No worries. I’ve got a _great_ immune system. I’m hardly ever sick.”

“—and I’m not sure how...appropriate it is for you to be here,” Wesley finished. “For us to be here...alone.”

“Why, because we’re attracted to each other?” Cordy asked bluntly. “Yeah. There. I said it. Not exactly like it’s a big secret anyway.”

Wesley came around the counter and stood facing her. “Cordelia...”

“I didn’t come here to make a move on you, Wesley,” she said, exasperated.

Again with the bluntness. Truthfully, Wesley appreciated that. They’d been dancing around their feelings for each other for a while now. It was good they were having this discussion.

“Even if I _thought_ that was a good idea, there’s no way I’d try it when you’re...” she looked him up and down, taking note of his pale face, puffy eyes, and reddened nose, “...like this.”

“Right,” Wesley ran a hand through his mussed-up hair in a futile attempt to smooth it down, then crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a bit self-conscious again. “Of course. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you might...I only meant...that it could...seem that way...if anyone else knew you were here.”

“I’ve never really given a crap about what other people think,” Cordelia said. “Besides, no one else _does_ know.”

The microwave dinged, and Wesley went back around the counter to take the soup out. While he was doing that, Cordelia reached into one of the bags and started digging around for something at the bottom.

“I also stopped by the video rental place...” she said, a smile spreading across her face as she found what she was looking for. She produced two VHS tapes and held them up for him to see. “...and got these.”

Wesley looked up from stirring his soup, eyebrows raised in curiosity, and grinned when he saw the titles. “My favorite James Bond movies.”

“Uh- _huh,_ ” Cordy’s own smile widened when she saw the way his eyes lit up. “Oh, and there’s three more in there,” she nodded towards the bag. “Nothing improves a sick day more than a movie marathon, am I right?”

“Well, I...wouldn’t know, really,” Wesley admitted as he carried his soup bowl into the living room.

Cordelia followed, giving him a questioning look.

“I’m not sick very often, either,” he explained, setting the bowl on the coffee table. “As it happens, this is only the fourth time I’ve had the flu.”

“Fourth time...ever?” Cordy asked. “Wow.”

“Yes, well, it seems it’s making up for lost time,” Wesley said, sitting down.

“You’re really feeling pretty crappy, huh?” Cordy said sympathetically.

Wesley nodded. “But...between this,” he held up a spoonful of soup, “that medicine you brought, and a few solid hours of sleep, I expect I’ll feel at least a little better by tonight.”

“And while you’re waiting the recommended hour to take a dose of that stuff,” Cordy said, “we can watch this.”

She crossed the room and popped one of the tapes into the VCR, then sat down beside Wesley on the couch and picked up the remote. “How do you work this thing?”

Wesley regarded her for a moment. “You don’t have to stay with me...if there’s someplace else you need to be.”

“There really isn’t,” Cordy said. She gave him a sideways glance as she fiddled with the buttons on his TV remote. “Besides, I don’t like the idea of you being by yourself while you’re sick.”

“I _am_ a grown man, Cordelia,” Wesley said. “And I’ve been ill before.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know if it’s the Southern California weather or the general Hellmouthy-ness of this place, but Sunnydale flu tends to be worse than your average, run-of-the-mill strain,” Cordelia told him. “Buffy was hospitalized when she had it last year. I figure anything that can bring down a Slayer has gotta be pretty brutal. What if you get worse and you need someone to take you to the hospital?”

“I can call you?” Wesley suggested.

“ _Or_ I could just stick around for a while, since I’m already here,” Cordy said. She finally found the right channel setting and pressed play. Setting the remote down, she turned to look at Wesley. “I’m just...I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to have to deal with this alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Wesley said. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, or imply that I don’t want you around. I appreciate what you’re doing, and...and I like having you here. I just don’t want to keep you from anything.”

“You’re not,” Cordy assured him. “I had a full schedule of absolutely _nothing_ planned for today, so I’m glad to have something to do.”

“What? Playing nurse-maid to a sick Watcher?” Wesley grimaced.

“Helping a friend,” Cordy corrected him.

That caught Wesley off-guard. He had imagined himself as a great many things to Cordelia, but in all of his musings, the word _friend_ had never entered his mind.

“Still,” he mumbled, “not exactly the most exciting way you could spend your day off from school.”

“Wow. Somebody _really_ did a number on you,” Cordelia said incredulously. “You actually can’t imagine why anyone would do something nice for you, can you?”

Wesley averted his eyes and took another bite of soup.

“I _like_ you, Wesley,” Cordy insisted. “And I don’t just mean that I’m attracted to the whole tall-dark-and-British-with-the-pretty-blue-eyes, although you definitely have that going for you...sorry, where was I?”

“You...like me,” Wesley prompted.

“Yes,” Cordy nodded emphatically. “I like _you._ As a person.”

“You would be the only one,” Wesley muttered.

“What? Buffy and her little Scooby gang still treating you like an outsider?” Cordelia snorted. “Who are they to decide whether you’re likable? Not one of them has made any effort to get to know you.”

Wesley glanced over at the television as the opening scene from his favorite 007 movie began to play. He had mentioned once, offhandedly, that he liked James Bond movies. That was nearly a month ago, and he didn’t even think anyone was listening. Evidently Cordelia was, and she had remembered.

“But you have,” he said.

“Yes,” Cordelia nodded, settling in to watch the movie. “And I like you.”

Wesley picked up his soup bowl and leaned back against the couch cushions. Cinematic music blared from the TV’s small speakers as the action kicked into full gear. Cordelia watched attentively—not, Wesley suspected, because she was into spy movies, but because she cared about getting to know _him_ , and she wanted to understand the things he was interested in.

Wesley smiled at her. “I like you, too.”


	3. I'm Getting There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley helps Cordelia write her English paper, and in the process Cordy learns a little bit about his childhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive Traits – Insightfulness

The restaurant had a quiet, laid back, somewhat sophisticated ambiance. It was nice, as far as Sunnydale restaurants went.

The clock on the wall said 7:55. Wesley tugged at his shirt collar and wondered for about the hundredth time exactly what he had gotten himself into. Cordelia was a smart girl, and English was one of her favorite subjects, so it seemed incredibly unlikely that she really needed his help that badly. It was pretty obvious this was meant to be a date rather than a study session.

And yet he had agreed to it. He just couldn’t bring himself to say no to Cordelia. Wesley wondered if his weakness for the dark-haired girl was a result of his attraction to her, or the simple fact that she was the only person in this whole town who actually liked him.

Regardless, he had said he would help, so here he was.

The clock struck eight, and in walked Cordelia Chase, looking radiant in a simple dark blue blouse and white skirt. She paused in the doorway and looked around, scanning the crowd for the man she had come to meet. Wesley waved to get her attention, and her face lit up when she spotted him. She crossed the room in a few graceful strides, and Wesley stood to greet her, pulling her chair out like the perfect gentleman he was.

“Hi, Wesley,” she smiled at him as she sat down. “You look nice.”

“You look...quite lovely yourself,” Wesley said, trying to sound more calm and composed than he felt.

They spent the next few moments getting settled, looking over menus and ordering drinks and appetizers. Finally Wesley asked, “So...about this English paper you’re writing...”

“Right. That.” Cordelia reached into her bag and withdrew a notebook. She opened it and flipped through a few pages until she reached the section she was looking for, then passed it across the table for Wesley to inspect. “This is all I’ve got so far. It’s just some notes I took while we were watching the movie.”

“Movie?” Wesley raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Cordy said. “The teacher was gonna have us read the book, but she said she figured most of us would probably just watch the movie anyway, so she brought it this week and we spent a couple of class periods watching it.”

Wesley picked up the notebook and read over the comments written in Cordelia’s neat handwriting, then looked up at her in surprise. “You watched _Matilda._ ”

“Uh-huh,” Cordy nodded, looking uninterested.

“You didn’t like it?”

“I just didn’t get it,” Cordelia said. “I mean I guess it’s kind of cute, but it just seems silly. How am I supposed to write a serious paper about such a ridiculous movie? The assignment is something like, _examine the central theme of the movie_ , but I couldn’t find anything really...thematic about it.”

Wesley gave her a blank look. “The central theme of _Matilda_ is quite clear.”

“Is it?” Cordy asked. “Then please, by all means, explain it to me. Cuz I don’t get it.”

“It’s about reclaiming control,” Wesley began, closing the notebook and passing it back across the table. “Taking back power from those who...shouldn’t have it.”

“Like that bulldozer lady?” Cordelia asked.

“Trunchbull, yes,” Wesley nodded. “I’ll give you an example. Originally, Matilda’s powers are triggered by people yelling at her. She has no control over the circumstances _or_ her resulting telekinetic reaction.”

“So...” Cordelia thought about it for a second. “She has powers, but she doesn’t have _power._ ”

“Precisely,” Wesley grinned, delighted to see her catching on. “But she doesn’t just leave it that way. Once Matilda realizes the source of her power, she begins working to gain control over it. First she incites her father’s anger to make him yell at her so she can slam the door, then she only has to imagine being yelled at in order to make the box of cereal tip over, and finally she reaches a point where she doesn’t need the yelling at all. By the middle of the film, Matilda has made the power completely her own. It belongs to her, _not_ her abusers.”

Cordelia picked up her pen and began writing quickly, copying down everything Wesley was saying. “That’s great. Keep going.”

“In a similar vein,” Wesley went on, “Matilda needs only do a few things to Headmistress Trunchbull to make the other children see that the fearsome woman isn’t quite so fearsome after all. Once Matilda has proven that Trunchbull isn’t all powerful, that she can be brought down and humiliated, the children cease to be afraid of her, and the _entire school_ rises up against the horrid woman and drives her away.”

He paused for a moment to wait for Cordy to finish writing. She scribbled a few sentences and then looked up at him expectantly.

“Perhaps the most important thing to note," Wesley continued, "is that Matilda begins to find strength inside herself _before_ she learns of her powers. The incidents with the peroxide and the super glue, for example, are the first small steps she takes to fight back against her father’s cruelty.”

“Huh,” Cordy tapped her pen against the notebook, a contemplative look on her face. “That’s a good point. Okay, but answer this. What was up with that cake scene? Did that really serve any purpose, or was it just there for like, obligatory grossness or something?”

“It was a little over-the-top, that’s true,” Wesley admitted. “However, it is immensely important, and it does in fact fit with the overall theme of reclaiming power.”

Cordy made a face. “Really? How?”

“Trunchbull forces Bruce Bogtrotter to eat an entire cake in front of everyone, purely out of malice,” Wesley explained. “Her intention is to humiliate Bruce and scare the other children into submission, to show them that she has the power to turn even their most enjoyable experiences into miserable ones. But Matilda robs her of that sadistic victory simply by standing up and cheering for Bruce, prompting the entire student body to follow her lead. All it takes is a little encouragement to turn the children’s fear into excitement and Bruce’s humiliation into triumph. And in doing so, Matilda ignites the first sparks of rebellion against the vile headmistress.”

Cordelia finished writing down his analysis, then looked up at him again. “This is some really great stuff. What else you got?”

“I could go on for hours about _Matilda_ ,” Wesley said. “But I believe I’ve given you enough to get you started.”

“How weird is it that the movie I’m supposed to be writing about just so happens to be a movie you’ve seen before, and...clearly put a lot of thought into already...” Cordelia trailed off, and Wesley picked up his menu and tried to look absorbed in studying the dessert selection.

“Wesley,” Cordelia reached across the table and pushed the menu down so she could meet his eyes. “Why _do_ you have so many deep insights about a kids’ movie that only came out like three years ago?”

“Ah...well, I, um...” Wesley stammered. “I read the book when I was a boy, and...well, it was one of my favorites. So when I heard a movie had been made, I wanted to go see it.”

Cordelia remained silent, studying him with a curious look on her face, like she knew there was more he wasn’t telling her.

“My father is not the...” Wesley hesitated as he searched his brain for the right word. “...nicest man. Growing up, he could be quite....difficult to please sometimes.”

“Did he yell at you a lot?” Cordy asked. “Like Matilda’s dad?”

Wesley nodded.

“Did you ever wish you had her powers?”

“It wasn’t her powers I wanted,” Wesley said quietly. “Just her courage.”

“Because she fought back even before she knew she had powers,” Cordelia said.

“Yes,” he said. “I always...admired that.”

A waiter appeared with their orders, and Wesley and Cordelia ate their appetizers in silence, the notebook sitting between them as a reminder of the unwritten paper and their unfinished conversation.

Finally, as Cordelia dipped her last mozzarella stick in the small container of marinara sauce in the center of her plate, she looked across at her dinner date and asked the question that had been brewing in her mind.

“You didn’t have a great childhood, did you Wesley?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” Cordy said. She was quiet for a moment, unsure of what else to say. “But...you’re okay now, right? Things are better now?”

Wesley considered her question. He was thousands of miles away from home, neither of his Slayers liked him, one of them had turned evil, every single thing he had tried to do since he came to Sunnydale had resulted in failure and just made things worse, and his father still wasn’t proud of anything he had ever done.

But there was one bright spot to being here. She was sitting across the table from him at this very moment, giving him her full attention and reassuring him—perhaps without even realizing what she was doing—that he was worth something, that he meant something to at least one person.

“I’m getting there.”


	4. Terrible Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley reveals his darkest secret to the Scoobies during an enchanted game of Truth or Dare, much to his dismay, and Willow decides to use more magic to make things right again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive Traits – Dedication; putting the job and the cause above his own personal feelings

The hallways of Sunnydale High were empty, but Wesley was almost certain the library wasn’t. Giles had a habit of staying late, and Buffy and her Scooby Gang—as they called themselves—seemed to do most of their research and planning after hours. At this point, Wesley was becoming more accustomed to seeing these halls abandoned at night rather than filled with students during the day.

Tonight he was here to drop off a large volume on Karoth demons that Giles had asked him to pick up. He made his way to the library, book in hand, and found Buffy and her friends there, as he had expected, but Giles was nowhere in sight.

“Evening,” Wesley greeted the group. “What are we working on tonight?”

“Willow’s doing a truth spell,” Cordelia said enthusiastically. She gestured to the table, where Willow sat with an assortment of magical ingredients laid out in front of her as she pored over a spell book.

“Truth spell?” Wesley took a step forward, curious, and looked at the text over Willow’s shoulder. “Isn’t that rather advanced?”

“That’s why she’s doing it when Giles isn’t here,” Cordelia said.

Willow looked up at them with a sheepish grin. “He’d probably tell me I’m not ready for it yet.”

“He could be right,” Wesley mused. “It’s certainly not a spell to be taken lightly.”

“But I know I can do it,” Willow said, her tone verging on defensive. “I know my own skill level, and I know what I can handle.”

“Fair enough,” Wesley said. “Still, it would be wise to proceed with caution. What do you intend to use it for?”

“Well, tonight we’re just testing it,” Willow explained. “But if it works, I thought maybe we could use it when we have to question a lot of people. After that whole mind-reading incident last week—” she gestured to Buffy “—I started thinking how much easier it would have been to interrogate all of our suspects if we had some kind of truth spell. I finally found all the ingredients I need, and Giles isn’t here, so I figured tonight would be a good time to try it.”

“We’re gonna test it by playing Truth or Dare after she casts the spell,” Oz told him.

“Yeah,” Cordelia nodded, and suddenly her eyes lit up. “Hey! You should totally join us!”

“You...want me to play Truth or Dare with you?” Wesley looked at the group uncertainly. “That seems...well, I’m not sure it’s such a...”

“Oh, come on,” Cordy insisted. “It’ll be fun.”

Wesley was hesitant. The last time he played Truth or Dare, his first year at the Watchers Academy, the upperclassmen had dared him to climb onto the roof of the lecture hall and then ran off with the ladder, leaving him stranded until a groundskeeper spotted him the next morning, at which point he was rescued, reprimanded, and relegated to dorm-cleaning duty for two weeks as punishment.

“I’ll...think about it.”

“Well, think fast,” Buffy said. “Game starts as soon as Will casts the spell.”

“Right,” Wesley nodded. He held up the book he had brought in. “I’ll just...go put this with the other demonic texts we’ve been collecting.”

He headed for Giles’ office and laid the volume on top of the already considerable stack of books on the desk. He studied the pile for a moment, taking mental note of all the works they had accumulated so far. When he looked up again, he saw Cordelia standing in the doorway.

“C’mon, Wesley,” she entreated him again. “You have to play. This is your chance.”

“My chance?” the young Watcher was confused. “Ah...to do what?”

“To be a part of the group,” Cordy said. “To do something that makes them pay attention to you.”

Wesley tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes questioningly.

Cordelia sighed and crossed the space between them. Standing in front of him, she gestured to the group through the window and lowered her voice.

“Remember last month when you were sick and we watched movies together?” she asked. “And we talked about how Buffy and her gang haven’t even _tried_ to get to know you?”

He nodded.

“ _Well_...” Cordy whispered. “This is your chance to change that. If you join the game, they’ll have to include you. They’ll have to ask you questions. It’s the perfect opportunity for them to get to know you a little better.”

“Hmm,” Wesley mulled it over for a moment. “That’s a good point.”

Cordelia grinned expectantly. “So you’ll play?”

“Yes,” Wesley agreed. “Yes, I think I will.”

“Great!” Cordy grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards the door. He followed her back out into the main area, where Willow was just putting the finishing touches on the spell.

“You in?” Oz asked Wesley.

“Yes, I’m in,” Wesley said, taking a seat at the table. Cordelia sat beside him, and everyone got quiet as Willow began reciting the Latin incantation.

A bright pink sphere of light slowly winked into existence in the center of the table, hovering and humming for a few seconds as Willow said the final phrases of the spell. Then it split into white wispy tendrils that shot out in six different directions and struck everyone at the table square in the chest. The effect wasn’t painful, but it was powerful enough to knock them against the backs of their chairs.

There was a brief silence as everyone took a few deep breaths and got their bearings back.

“So...” Cordelia ventured. “Did it work?”

“I dunno,” Buffy said. “Let’s find out. Xander, what are you thinking about right now?”

“Sex,” Xander answered automatically, then quickly covered his mouth.

Buffy turned back to the others. “Yep, it worked. Nice job, Will.”

Willow beamed with pride. “Okay, let’s get our Truth or Dare on. Who wants to go first?”

“I’ll start,” Cordelia said. “Wesley—”

The others nodded knowingly and exchanged _saw-that-coming_ glances.

“What?” Cordelia asked, indignant. “We’ve gotta start somewhere. _Anyway_...Wesley, truth or dare?”

“Ah...” Wesley shifted uncomfortably and looked around the table. The last thing he wanted was to find out what kind of dares a group of teenagers could devise, especially if _he_ was the target of said dares. “Truth.”

“When you were a kid,” Cordelia asked him, “what was your favorite movie and why?”

“My favorite movie was Mary Poppins,” Wesley said, and although he didn’t really want to explain why, the truth spell compelled him to answer honestly. “Because at the end of the film, the authoritative, no-nonsense father finally realizes how special and precious his children are, and he goes out and flies kites with them.”

There was a short, slightly awkward silence, mercifully broken by Cordelia before it became unbearable.

“Plus, cartoon animals singing and dancing,” she said. “Who doesn’t love that, right? Your turn, Wesley.”

“All right,” Wesley said. “Ahhh...Xander. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Xander said.

“Aw, c’mon Xander,” Willow complained. “We’re supposed to be testing the truth spell.”

“It’s called Truth _or_ Dare, Will,” Xander pointed out. “You have a choice. That’s kinda the whole point. And personally if it’s a choice between making an idiot of myself or having to answer questions without a filter, I’d rather make an idiot of myself. I’ve been doing that professionally for eighteen years running. So, Wesley...dare.”

A slow smirk spread across Wesley’s face. “All right...I _dare_ you to pick _truth_ for the rest of the game.”

“That’s slick,” Oz admitted.

“That’s cheating!” Xander protested.

“That’s a really _great_ loophole,” Cordelia said admiringly.

Xander crossed his arms over his chest and sulked. "You’re gonna pay for that,” he said, glowering at Wesley. The Watcher shrugged, unconcerned, and the game continued.

It went on uneventfully for another couple of rounds. Everyone mostly picked truth for Willow’s sake, so she could study the specific effects of the spell, but there were a few dares thrown in to spice things up.

Wesley wasn’t excluded from the game, much to his surprise and Cordelia’s satisfaction. The others chose him almost as much as they chose each other, and he was glad for the chance to share a bit of information about himself and learn a little about them.

When it was Xander’s turn again, he rubbed his hands together gleefully and looked at Wesley. “Payback time.”

“Do your worst,” Wesley challenged, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed and a confident smile on his face.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“I’m so glad you picked that,” Xander said. “Wesley...tell us your deepest, darkest secret.”

Wesley’s smile vanished, and a look of genuine horror crossed his face. He clamped his jaw shut and desperately tried to resist the truth spell, but the words came tumbling out of his mouth against his will.

“When I was a boy, my father had a friend named Morton who would come into town on business a few times a year. Every time he visited, Morton would come to see my family, and he always insisted on setting aside one day for some special ‘Wesley time.’ He would take me to the fairgrounds, the local toy store, the cinemas, the ice cream parlor...anywhere I wanted to go.” Wesley sat perfectly stiff and upright in his chair, powerless against the magic to do anything other than continue his story. “At the end of the day, he would take me back to whatever fancy hotel suite he was staying in on that particular trip, where he would then do...horrible things to me.”

Underneath the table, Wesley gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. Beads of sweat ran down the side of his face. His heart pounded. “He told me it was a _game._ I was eight the first time it happened. For two years after that, I was periodically molested by this man I called Uncle Morty, this _dear friend_ of my parents whom my father esteemed so highly. I was terrified to tell anyone. I was afraid no one would believe me, or that they would say it was somehow my fault. It wasn’t until—”

“ _C_ _essare veritatem_ _!_ ” Willow interrupted suddenly. There was a _whoosh,_ a flash of light, and then silence. The truth spell was broken.

No one moved. No one spoke. All eyes were on Wesley. The young Watcher stared straight ahead, not meeting anyone’s gaze. For a moment he seemed to be in shock, then he stood quickly and left the room without a word.

“Oh god,” Xander said quietly.

The Scoobies turned to look at him as everyone collectively remembered it was his question that had led to this.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I-I had no idea. I just thought...god, I thought a guy like Wesley...I-I figured his biggest secret would be...would be something stupid. Something harmless. If I had known...I-I never would have...oh god.”

“Not your fault,” Buffy said softly. “You couldn’t have known.”

Cordelia was still staring at the door, one hand covering her mouth, moisture brimming at the corners of her eyes.

“That’s so awful,” she choked, her voice barely audible.

Buffy put a hand on her shoulder. “I know.”

“I wouldn’t mind going full on wolf-mode on that Morton guy,” Oz said.

“What’s it gonna be like for Wesley when he comes in here tomorrow?” Cordelia asked. “Are we all just supposed to act normal and pretend like tonight didn’t happen, or should one of us try to talk to him about it, or...or what?”

“I think I know what to do about that,” Willow said.

“You do?” Buffy asked.

“Yeah,” Willow reached across the table and started digging through her book bag. She slipped her hand into a little pocket inside the bag, and withdrew a small twig with light pink blossoms...

 

* * *

 

The hallways of Sunnydale High were empty, and Wesley sincerely hoped the library was, too.

He had arrived early in the hopes that the Scoobies wouldn’t be there yet. He felt like it might be easier to face them if he encountered them one by one throughout the day. He couldn’t bear the thought of walking into the library and finding the entire group assembled already, staring at him in awkward silence and wondering what they ought to say to him.

Apprehensively, he nudged open the door to the library and slipped inside. It was deserted, save for Giles, who glanced up when he entered.

“Morning, Wesley,” Giles greeted him.

“Good morning,” Wesley said, silently thankful that the older Watcher had not been there to hear his horrible secret the night before.

“Are you all right?” Giles asked him. “You look a little pale.”

“Ah...fine,” Wesley said. “I just...didn’t sleep well is all. But I’m fine.”

Giles seemed satisfied with the answer, and he went back to cataloging the new shipment of books. Wesley let out a relieved breath and loosened his tie a little as he made his way to the office, where he sat down and began leafing through one of the demon compendiums distractedly.

After a few moments he heard footsteps approaching the doorway. He ducked his head and tried to appear more absorbed in his reading, hoping whoever it was would just ignore him like they usually did.

“Wesley?” he recognized Willow’s voice, and reluctantly looked up at her. She was standing in the threshold, a shy smile on her face.

“Morning, Willow," Wesley kept his expression neutral, trying not to betray the turmoil and shame bubbling below the surface.

“I’m glad I caught you before anyone else got here,” Willow said. “I wanted to tell you that you don’t need to worry about what happened last night.”

“No?” Wesley asked guardedly.

Willow checked over her shoulder to make sure Giles wasn’t watching, then produced a small brown and pink plant from her pocket. “Do you know what this is?”

Wesley’s eyes widened, and he stood quickly and crossed the room. “That’s—” he glanced furtively toward Giles, who was still focused on his work and apparently hadn’t even noticed Willow’s entrance. Wesley motioned her into the room and shut the door behind her. “That’s _Lethe’s Bramble,_ ” he exclaimed in a whisper.

“Yeah,” Willow nodded, evidently very pleased with herself. “I used it to do a memory spell on the others after you left last night. They don’t remember anything you said during the game. As far as I can tell, they don’t even remember you were _there._ ”

“Willow—”

“Here,” she held out her hand, offering him the bramble. “You can do the same spell on me so I won’t remember either.”

Wordlessly, Wesley took the plant and walked over to the desk. He opened a drawer, withdrew a box of matches, and to Willow’s complete surprise and confusion, lit the bramble on fire and dropped it into a glass bowl to let the flames burn out harmlessly.

Willow was dumbfounded. “Wha—”

He whirled on her suddenly, more intense than she had ever seen him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I-I thought you’d be glad about it," Willow stammered.

“You’ve altered your friends’ _minds_ ,” Wesley said. “That’s a very serious matter. The magical community considers memory spells to be _highly_ unethical, which you might have known if you'd bothered to do a little research before doing something so foolish. You’re messing with things you have no business controlling.”

“I can handle it,” Willow insisted.

Wesley sighed, frustrated. “It’s not about what you can handle. It’s about what’s _right._ You have the makings of a fine witch, Willow, but there are certain lines that even the most skilled practitioners of magics must never cross.”

“I-it’s just...” Willow faltered, “I was just trying to help you.”

“This isn’t the way!” Wesley said, a little more forcefully than he intended, and Willow shrank back.

Wesley’s expression softened, and he continued in a gentler, explanatory tone. “Look, coming in here today was the last thing I wanted to do. I was absolutely dreading the thought of...of having to look any of you in the eyes, after what you heard last night. But I came anyway, because I’ve got a job to do. A job that’s far more important than my own personal humiliation.”

The young Watcher put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the desk.

“Terrible things happen,” he went on quietly, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Secrets that you would rather keep hidden get revealed.” He looked up again. “But you can’t make life better by erasing the bad parts, by...by glossing over them and pretending they didn’t happen. You accept them, you deal with them, and you move on and do what needs to be done.”

It was Willow’s turn to look down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it like that.”

Wesley took a step forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I do— _truly_ —appreciate what you did for me _._ More than you can imagine. But you _must_ promise me that you won’t ever do it again.”

“O-okay,” Willow nodded.

“Give me your word,” Wesley insisted.

“I will,” Willow assured him. “I mean...I do. I promise.”

“All right then,” he let go of her shoulder and turned back to the desk, watching as the last tiny flames in the bowl dissipated.

“But...” Willow said hesitantly. “You...you don’t mind that I still know?”

Wesley sighed wearily and gripped the edge of the desk. “Of course I mind. But I’m not going to use _this_ to cover it up,” he plucked the blackened twig from the bowl and held the charred remains in front of her for emphasis.

Willow averted her eyes again.

“And...” Wesley added, softer. “I believe I can trust you not to mention it to anyone.”

“Of course.”

“Good,” Wesley nodded. “You should go. You’ll be late for class.”

Willow made for the door and then stopped, hand on the knob. “Wesley?”

“Yes?”

“I uh...I just wanted to say...what you told us about...I’m really, _really_ sorry you had to go through that.”

Wesley nodded a silent thanks, and then Willow was gone.


	5. Oddly Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On prom night, Wesley comes to a couple of important conclusions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive Traits – Intuitiveness, understanding

They strolled through the crowd, arm-in-arm, comfortable in each other’s presence, and momentarily content in spite of the tumultuous circumstances in their lives.

Wesley looked down at the girl by his side and smiled with admiration—admiration for her tenacious spirit, her upbeat attitude, and for the compassion and thoughtfulness that nobody else in their little group saw in her. Cordelia Chase was a truly remarkable young woman, and as they walked together under the strobing lights in the high school gym, Wesley allowed himself to wonder about the kind of future they might have with each other.

He wasn’t too far into his imagining when they crossed paths with Xander and his date—Anya, if Wesley remembered correctly, the former demon who had caused all that trouble with Willow’s vampire double a while back. Wesley had no idea how Xander had ended up taking her to the prom, but now the boy looked extremely uncomfortable.

“Cordelia! Wesley!” Xander greeted them eagerly. “My god in heaven, it’s good to see you. How are you both? And details, please.”

Wesley had overheard Anya telling stories of past vengeance wishes earlier, so he understood Xander’s desperation to find a new topic of discussion. The Watcher smiled and answered honestly. “Very well, thank you.”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, giving Xander a meaningful look. “ _Thank you.”_

The boy tilted his head and looked her up and down. “It looks good on you.”

“Well _duh_ ,” Cordy responded with a grin.

Wesley watched the exchange, curious and a little intrigued. He knew Xander and Cordelia’s history, and he knew a little of Cordelia’s current financial situation, so it didn’t take much to put the pieces together—Xander had paid for Cordelia’s dress as a peace offering. Wesley could practically _see_ the animosity between them evaporate as the two teens shared knowing smiles before parting ways.

And as they walked away, Wesley saw something else. It wasn’t anything he could put into words, but in that moment, he knew Cordelia would never truly be his.

He didn’t know what it was about the brief, mostly non-verbal reconciliation that brought on this realization. It wasn’t like he expected Xander and Cordelia to get back together. Nor did Wesley believe that he had been Cordelia’s rebound and that she wouldn’t need him anymore—one thing he was certain of was that she thought too highly of him to use him like that. There was no logical reason for him to suddenly be so sure that he and Cordelia had no future together as lovers.

And yet he knew.

What surprised him the most was how calm he was in the face of this epiphany. He squared his shoulders, took her arm again, and set off with her across the gym once more. They might not have a future together, he decided, but they still had the present, and he wanted to enjoy that with her.

But the night was still young, and the universe wasn’t quite finished sending unexpected revelations Wesley’s way.

He was surprised when he heard Buffy’s name called from the stage. She wasn’t involved in a lot of school activities—she didn’t have time for it; her Slayer duties took precedence—so Wesley couldn’t imagine what she might have won.

“This is actually a new category,” the short boy at the microphone explained. Wesley recognized him as the young man Buffy had saved from committing suicide not too long ago.

“First time ever,” Jonathan went on. “I guess there were a lot of write-in ballots, and well...the prom committee asked me to read this.”

He withdrew a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Unfolding it, he began to read aloud the surprisingly heartfelt message the senior class had composed for Buffy.

“It’s from all of us,” Jonathan concluded, opening the small, glittering parasol his classmates handed him. “And it has written here: _Buffy Summers, Class Protector._ ”

The whole gymnasium burst into applause, and the spotlight followed Buffy as the crowd parted to let her pass.

The Watchers Council would no doubt disapprove of supernatural occurrences being publicly acknowledged in this way, Wesley thought. But when a town sat atop a Hellmouth, its residents could only deny the truth for so long. If they were going to recognize the bad things that happened in Sunnydale, then perhaps it was a good thing that they also recognized they had someone looking out for them.

It didn’t matter what the Council would think. Buffy had earned this, and Wesley was happy for her. The truth was that he was quite fond of the young Slayer, he just didn’t really know how to express it.

Then he looked to his right, and saw something that made his own feelings of fondness pale in comparison.

As a boy, Wesley had always been certain that he would know a look of fatherly pride if he saw it. Now it turned out he was right, because that was exactly what he saw on Rupert Giles’ face. The older Watcher stood beside him, eyes fixed on the stage where Buffy was holding her unexpected award. He was beaming, face glowing with adoration and affection for the young woman, the depth of which far outweighed anything Wesley would ever feel.

Because while Wesley may have liked Buffy, Giles _loved_ her.

As soon as that thought struck him, Wesley knew he would never be Buffy’s true Watcher. It didn’t matter how strongly the Council spurned Giles, it didn’t matter how many official decrees they made, or how many sacred oaths Wesley swore. None of that could change the fact that Rupert Giles was, and always would be, Buffy’s one and only Watcher.

Wesley supposed it didn’t change anything. He would remain in Sunnydale for as long as was necessary, he would continue to perform the duties of a Watcher, and maybe, just maybe, Buffy might eventually come to like him. But she would never have the kind of profound bond with him that she had with Giles.

And, oddly enough, he was okay with that.

Wesley went home that night feeling more alone than he ever had since coming to Sunnydale, and more at peace about it than he ever would have thought possible.


	6. What Good Do What-Ifs Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Buffy rejects Wesley as her Watcher, he goes off alone to do some serious soul-searching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive Traits – Self-awareness, willingness to do the right thing without expecting a reward

Buffy brushed past him with a scathing “Get a job,” and a look that screamed _you’re pathetic._ Wesley turned to Giles for some measure of support, and got none. Instead the older Watcher gave him a reproachful, almost disappointed look, and then walked away to go attend to the dying vampire in the next room.

Now Wesley really _was_ alone. The way he felt after the prom was nothing compared to the crushing weight of his own failure bearing down on him as he stood in the center of the empty room and watched his whole world come crashing down.

Rejected by his own Slayer. How much lower could a Watcher get? What would the Council say? What would _his father_ say? Wesley shuddered to think of it.

In a daze, Wesley left Angel’s mansion and walked home. When he got to his flat, he stood in the doorway and looked around at the sparsely decorated living room. He didn’t have much—a couch, a TV, bookshelves filled with demonic texts and classic literature, and a small side table that held a lamp, a phone, and...a VHS tape.

Wesley crossed the room and picked up the tape for a closer look. It was the copy of _Matilda_ that Cordelia had given him as a thank-you for helping her make an A on her English paper.

He stared at it for a moment, then set it back on the table, picked up the phone, and dialed the one person he knew actually cared about him.

Cordelia barely got out a cheerful “Hello?” before Wesley launched into a frantic, rambling, barely coherent explanation of what had transpired at the mansion. Enraged and a little confused, Cordelia nonetheless promised him that she would immediately go talk to Giles and demand answers. Wesley choked out what he was fairly certain sounded like a “Thank you,” and then hung up.

He stood there for a few more minutes, staring vacantly at the phone and the tape, feeling lost and hopeless and utterly unsure of what he was supposed to do next. What was the logical course of action after one’s entire purpose in life was reduced to nothingness?

A few days after arriving in Sunnydale, Wesley had discovered a set of stairs at the back of his apartment building that led to the roof. One of the first times he went up there was after his failed intervention with Faith, and he found it to be an excellent place for quiet reflection. After that, the roof became his haven, the place he retreated when he needed solitude to think through problems and figure things out.

And it was where he found himself heading tonight, his mood pensive as he ascended the three flights of stairs and emerged into the stillness of the warm, clear night.

Wesley’s apartment complex was situated at the far edge of Sunnydale, so the roof provided him a mostly unobstructed view of the small town. From here he could see the high school, City Hall, Angel’s mansion, a few of the cemeteries Buffy regularly patrolled, and a building he thought might be The Bronze. All of it stretched out before him now like a map of his failures—he envisioned giant red pins sticking out of each site, glaring reminders of all the mistakes he had made these last few months.

He thought back to his first day in Sunnydale, remembering how excited he had been as he walked into the library for the first time, bright and optimistic and full of ideas. He remembered the anticipation as he eagerly awaited the arrival of his charges. It was, after all, the moment he had spent most of his life preparing for. All his years of study, all the long hours spent poring over books, all of his hard work at the Academy finally culminated in that moment when the two young Slayers walked through those double doors.

And within a span of five minutes, they both flat-out rejected him.

Their rejection stung him, quite a lot more than he let on. But he had tried to be understanding about it. He knew from prior research that both girls had been through a recent string of bad experiences with Watchers, so it made sense that they would be reluctant to accept someone new. He had decided he would just have to prove himself to gain their respect.

And in retrospect, it was actually quite remarkable how spectacularly he had crashed and burned.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was considerably more self-aware than people gave him credit for, and he was fully cognizant of his own shortcomings. He knew he was arrogant and cocky and a little bit prideful, and it frustrated him to no end. Every time he opened his mouth, he found himself cringing inwardly at how obnoxious or pretentious he sounded. Lately he’d been making a concentrated effort to not be like that, but it felt like everything he did to try to make things better only made him come across as even _more_ obnoxious. It was a vicious cycle, and he had no idea how to escape it.

With every mistake, he felt more and more alienated from the group. With every failure, he heard his father’s voice growing louder and more persistent in the back of his mind, telling him that he would never be good enough, that he would never measure up to anyone’s expectations.

His gaze was drawn back to City Hall, where at this moment the Mayor was preparing for the next day’s battle. More than likely Faith was there with him, listening and taking orders and hanging onto Wilkens’ every word as if the man were some kind of damn fountain of wisdom. It made Wesley’s blood boil to know that the Mayor was the kind of authority figure and—if it was possible— _friend_ that he had failed to be to Faith.

When he first read the file the Council had on Faith and learned that she hailed from the East Coast, Wesley had found it amusing, given that his own name meant “from the west meadow.” After he actually met Faith, he saw the irony in it. The symbolism seemed oddly appropriate, since she was basically his complete opposite in every way.

Or so he thought at the time.

Now, as he sat on the rooftop musing over the last few months, Wesley began to think that maybe he and Faith were never quite as different as he once believed. They both had less-than-perfect childhoods, they were both used to being alone most of the time, and they were both considerably more insecure than they would ever let on. What made them different was the way they handled that insecurity. Faith dealt with it by shutting down and retreating further into herself and becoming isolated from the rest of the group. Wesley did the opposite. He tried too hard, pushing his ideas and opinions on the others every chance he got, all in a desperate attempt to get them to notice him, to make them acknowledge at least _once_ that he was important, that he actually contributed something to the team.

Faith pushed people away. Wesley pushed people’s buttons. But at the end of the day, the result was the same for both of them—they were alone, left with no one but themselves to depend on.

Maybe if they had realized that sooner, things would have been different. Maybe, Wesley thought, if Faith had been a little more open to the idea of a new Watcher, he could have done more for her. Maybe if he had been a little kinder, she would have trusted him enough to come to him for help. Maybe if they had both realized how alike they really were—despite all of the outward evidence to the contrary—they could have turned to each other instead of turning against one another. Maybe they could have been a strong Slayer and Watcher team with a powerful dynamic, like Buffy and Giles. Maybe they could have been _friends_.

Wesley shook his head. This was not a time for maybes. Sunnydale was still in great peril. If Buffy didn’t stop the Ascension tomorrow, thousands of people would die horribly at the hands—or claws, or teeth—of an enormous homicidal demon. The very thought of it sent shivers up his spine.

It occurred to Wesley that he was under no obligation to remain in Sunnydale any longer. If he wanted, he could board the next flight back to England and be safely home before the Ascension even started. Maybe he should. Nobody wanted him here anyway, and it was no secret that he wasn’t exactly _useful_ in combat situations.

But Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was no coward. He had never run from a fight, no matter how terrified or unprepared or out of his depth he was. He had tried—admittedly unsuccessfully—to fight Faith when she broke free of her restraints and escaped the Council’s custody. When Cordelia was attacked by Willow’s vampire doppelganger, Wesley had charged in to help without a second thought. Shaking and stammering and scared out of his wits, he nonetheless stood his ground and warded off the demon, saving Cordelia's life in the process. When the Mayor captured Willow, and the Scooby Gang wanted to trade the Box of Gavrok to ensure her safe return, Wesley had once again stood his ground, insisting that the thousands of lives at stake outweighed the life of one girl, and knowing full well that he was alienating himself from the group even further by daring to suggest there was something more important than one of their own.

Pragmatic and ruthless to his core, Wesley believed in doing what was right, regardless of how unpleasant it was, or how competent he was, or even whether or not anyone wanted him there at all.

The first few rays of early morning light appeared at the edge of the horizon, chasing away the darkness. In front of him, the city began to wake to what might be the last sunrise Sunnydale would ever see. Behind him, the mistakes of his recent past loomed like an ominous, heavy storm cloud, overshadowing the good he had done, but Wesley didn’t care.

Suddenly filled with resolve, he stood and made his way back downstairs, his mind made up.

The past be damned. There was work to be done.


	7. Finer Than the Lot of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to Sunnydale Hospital and an unexpected request from the Watchers Council prompt Giles to reconsider his opinions of Wesley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about Wesley’s good qualities being examined in-universe, by Giles

Rupert Giles breathed an exhausted sigh and rubbed his temples. The danger of the Ascension had passed, and the chaos of the aftermath was finally winding down.

Giles had spent a good portion of the afternoon and evening at Sunnydale Hospital, helping Buffy get a count of everyone who was injured in the battle. It had been a long few hours, and he was ready to go home.

He wanted to check in on Wesley before leaving, so Giles headed for the elevators. During the short ride up to the third floor, he thought about what awaited Wesley after he was released from the hospital. Given that his track record in Sunnydale was spotty at best, it was extremely likely the Council would have him reevaluated as soon as he returned to England, to determine whether he really belonged among their ranks. Giles’ own recent experience in that department made him feel a slight pang of sympathy for Wesley.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Giles made his way down the hallway. When he reached the younger man’s room, he found Wesley awake, but not entirely lucid.

“Hello, Wesley,” Giles said, tapping his knuckles lightly against the open door before entering. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better now, thank you,” Wesley replied with a sleepy smile. “They gave me morphine. It’s quite wonderful. I feel like I’m floating on a great, soft slice of bread.”

“.....Bread,” Giles repeated, nonplussed. “That’s an odd choice. Why not a cloud?”

Wesley turned his head and looked at him as if Giles had just said the dumbest thing on the planet. “You can’t float on clouds. They’re made of water, you’d fall right through. Don’t be an idiot.”

“But a giant slice of bread is completely within the realm of possi—” Giles stopped when he realized how pointless it was to argue with a man on pain meds. “Ah, n-never mind. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“That’s a lovely idea,” the young Watcher mumbled, his eyes already half-closed.

As Wesley drifted off, Giles sank down into the chair beside the bed, glad to be off his feet for a moment. Leaning back, he propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and rested his chin on his laced fingers, studying the sleeping man contemplatively.

It was no secret that Wesley was as naïve and inexperienced as Watchers came, but seeing him in this state—injured and subdued and vulnerable—really drove home just how _young_ he truly was. Wesley had come to them fresh out of the Academy, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, bursting with enthusiasm and brimming with alacrity.

 _Not to mention bloody annoying. And obnoxious. Incompetent. Pompous._ Giles mentally ticked off one irritating trait after another. _Quite frankly, I think Wesley is perfect for the Council. He’s an arrogant prick, like all the rest of them._

Giles checked himself. It didn’t seem right to think ill of a man who was lying in a hospital bed after being injured in a battle he didn’t even have to be a part of. Wesley could be called a lot of things—Giles had called him most of those things—but not a coward.

One also couldn’t accuse him of being _exactly_ like the rest of the Council. There were a few things Giles had noticed that made Wesley stand out from his counterparts. For one thing, he was considerably more tolerant of Buffy’s friends than Giles had expected. The Council quite adamantly believed Slayers should spend their lives alone, separated from family and friends, training night and day and slaying until they were slain. As far as the Council was concerned, personal relationships didn’t factor into the life of a Slayer at all.

From what Giles could tell, Wesley didn’t buy into that line of thinking. If anything, he actually seemed to _like_ working with a group. Wesley was incredibly respectful of the Scooby Gang. He listened to them, he valued everyone’s input—more than that, he _asked_ for it most of the time—and he recognized and respected the knowledge, skills, and unique perspective each member brought to the team.

In spite of his abrupt dismissal, and the intensity with which the other Watchers shunned him, Giles still had a few friends left in the Council, including a file clerk who owed him a favor. Consequently, when he heard they were sending a replacement Watcher, he had managed to requisition copies of every scrap of information the Council had on Wesley, including Academy rankings, psychological evaluations, and a comprehensive list of his skills and qualifications.

What Giles found was quite impressive. Wesley had an IQ of 187, was top of his class at the Watcher’s Academy, possessed unparalleled linguistic talents, and had displayed an inclination towards sorcery from a very young age.

 _That’s all well and good,_ Giles thought. _But he’s still a prick._

Of course, _most_ Watchers were pricks, so one couldn’t really hold that against Wesley. It was the culture he’d been brought up in. In fact, Giles reflected, Wesley was usually at his worst when he was trying his hardest to enforce the Council’s methods. When the younger Watcher allowed himself to relax a little, Giles found him to be a fairly agreeable fellow.

In the last few months, as Giles had worked alongside Wesley, he had observed a notable contrast in the younger man’s disposition, a certain duality in his nature that came from the line he was treading between the Watcher he was trained to be, and the man he was capable of being.

Wesley the Watcher thought he knew everything. Wesley the man had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. The Watcher was driven by ego. The man was driven by passion. The Watcher was bound by the Council’s ancient traditions. The man was creative enough to think outside the box, if he was ever given the chance. The Watcher was uptight, stiff, arrogant, and frustratingly naïve. The man was bright, cheerful, curious, and genuinely excited to be a part of something bigger.

It occurred to Giles that the Council had a disturbing habit of suppressing the best qualities in their Watchers and bringing out the worst parts of their personalities. Wesley’s tenure in Sunnydale was probably the first time in his life that he had been away from the direct influence of the Council, and it showed. The last few months had produced some measure of improvement in the younger Watcher—a very small measure, but improvement nonetheless.

And now he was set to go back to England, back to the Council’s rigid, unwavering ways of thinking, back to the pompousness and arrogance he’d been slowly getting away from. If Wesley went back to them, any progress he had made in Sunnydale would be undone, and the Council would squash all of his better qualities once and for all.

It was a very cynical view of the Watchers Council, to be sure, and Giles recognized that the bleak mental picture he was painting was heavily colored by his own bitterness and resentment.

Still, it wasn’t an entirely inaccurate view.

“Hey,” Buffy’s voice broke into his thoughts, and he glanced up to see her leaning against the doorframe.

“Oh, hello Buffy,” he said, sitting up straight.

“How’s Wesley?” she asked.

“Sound asleep,” Giles said. “They doped him up on morphine, so he’ll likely be out for quite a while.”

“At least someone’s getting a good night’s rest,” Buffy remarked.

“Hm?” Giles raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think you’re going to, ah...crash when you get home?”

Buffy shook her head. “As tired as I am, I think I’m too wound up to sleep.”

“I suppose that’s understandable,” Giles admitted. “The kind of day we’ve had. Did you come up here from the ER?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it like down there?”

“Still kinda crazy,” Buffy said. “Every time I think, _Okay, that’s the last of them,_ they bring in someone else. I knew the casualties would be high, but... _man_.”

“Mm,” Giles mumbled noncommittally, his gaze returning to Wesley. “Do you think he might have been right, Buffy? If we’d destroyed the Box of Gavrok when we had it, all of this could have been avoided.”

“And Willow would be _dead,_ ” Buffy countered, her eyes narrowing.

Giles was silent.

“...Maybe,” Buffy said. “Or maybe we could’ve saved Willow _and_ destroyed the Box. I don’t know. And I don’t really wanna think about it right now.”

Giles nodded and stood to leave. Joining Buffy in the doorway, he cast one last look at the sleeping Wesley. Buffy followed his gaze.

“Still,” she admitted. “I kinda get where he was coming from. It’s easier to see that now than it was when my best friend was in danger.”

“I was very impressed with him today, at any rate,” Giles said. “Coming back to aid in the battle.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “I guess he didn’t have to do that.”

They left the room and walked to the elevators together. When they arrived at the ground floor, Giles turned to Buffy. “Would you like a ride home?”

She shook her head. “Nah. I’m gonna stay here a little longer. See if anyone else is brought in.”

“All right,” Giles put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Buffy said.

Giles left the hospital and got in his car, wanting nothing more than to go home and relax. He relished the idea of sitting down with a hot cup of tea and a good book and letting the tension melt away.

He was barely through the front door before his phone rang.

“Typical," he muttered. With a sigh, he picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. Giles,” the voice of Quentin Travers on the other end only deepened the scowl on Giles’ face. “I’m calling to inform you that the Council has requested you provide us with a formal assessment of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”

Giles was caught off guard by the request, but he couldn’t resist the urge to take a dig at Travers. “Really? The Council actually wants to hear my opinion on something?”

“There’s no need to be difficult about this.” It sounded like Travers was trying to cover up his annoyance with diplomacy. “Past actions aside, the fact remains that you are the only person in Sunnydale who is qualified to make an assessment of Pryce. You’ve worked closely with him during his time there, so I believe you’ve had plenty of opportunities to observe his skills and his methods.”

“Well, yes,” Giles admitted.

“And in light of recent events," Travers went on, "there are...a few among us who believe a reevaluation of his status as Watcher may be in order.”

The corner of Giles’ mouth quirked upward. The Council was as predictable as ever.

“And surely you understand that even as a _former_ Watcher, you will always have a certain obligation to the Council, to respond when you are called upon...”

Here Travers launched into a spiel Giles had heard variations of his entire life, droning on about duty and destiny and the ancient rules governing their order, and Giles couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the absurdity. He tuned it out and took the opportunity to reflect upon his earlier musings about Wesley.

He suddenly found himself wanting to go back to the hospital to talk to Wesley. He wanted to ask him some questions and try to get a better idea of his perspective, but Wesley was likely still asleep, and Giles didn’t want to disturb him for this.

 _Oh, I can just picture that,_ he thought, suppressing a scoff. “ _Sorry to wake you, but I’m here to confirm whether or not you’re a prick so I can help the Council decide if they want to fire you._ ”

That would be sure to go over well.

“I’ll call you back in two hours,” Travers said, drawing Giles’ attention back to the present. “I expect that should give you enough time to put together an assessment.”

And suddenly everything was very clear, and Rupert Giles knew exactly what to say.

He opened his mouth to respond, then stopped, hesitating for just a moment as he recognized the hypocrisy of what he was about to do. After all, he knew how it felt to be spurned by the people he had dedicated his entire life to, and now here he was preparing to subject Wesley to that same crushing rejection. Could he, in good conscience, go through with that?

The potential benefit, Giles decided, far outweighed the cost.

“I don’t need two hours,” he said. “I can give you my assessment right now.”

“This is a serious matter, Mr. Giles,” Travers admonished him. “It’s not something that should be rushed.”

“It isn’t rushed,” Giles said. “I’ve actually put quite a lot of thought into this already. As you said, I’ve had a while to observe him.”

“Very well,” Travers conceded. “What is your assessment?”

“It’s my conclusion that Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is not a good fit for the Council, and I recommend that he be relieved of his duties as Watcher, effective immediately.”

“Thank you, Mr. Giles. The Council will take your assessment into consideration,” Travers said. Then he hung up without a goodbye.

“And by _not a good fit_ , I mean he’s finer than the lot of you, and if he stays with the Council, you’ll ruin him,” Giles said to the dial tone. He placed the receiver back in its cradle, and a small smile crept onto his face.

Maybe on his own, Wesley would have the chance to become the man Giles now believed he could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of Early Days. I hope you've all enjoyed reading this character study of Sunnydale Wesley as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Be on the lookout soon for the second story in the series: Conversations with Wesley.


End file.
